Untitled
by Just Ella
Summary: There had always been something ambiguous about their relationship... More to follow or precede. My first venture into stories of the Mark & Roger variety, so constructive criticism is always appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

I know, I _know_. I should be updating Emotion Sickness. I'm working on it right now, so that should come in a while. If inspiration keeps within my good graces. Can some cute semi-sexy slash make up for my lackluster muse over the past few months?

-Ella

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When Roger went through withdrawal, Mark used to sit beside him on the debilitated mattress, rubbing his back. One of the few memories of it that Roger has is Mark's nails gently scraping against his sweat dampened t-shirt, soothing words being whispered in his ear. Mark's hands were always warm and soft, the pads of his fingers rough from his many hours spent tinkering with his camera and film. Although Roger would never admit it, he knew the goose bumps on his skin weren't from his chills.

There had always been something ambiguous about their relationship. Mark and Roger alike would be in casual contact with one another, contact that couldn't be chalked up to a close friendship. Punches, casual pats on the back, even the occasional hug- it was all a little more than just friendly.

A few nights after the breakup with Maureen, Roger woke up to heaving sobs in the next room over. The walls were paper-thin and he could hear each word Mark was muttering. Gathering up his blankets, Roger sat down and wrapped his arm around Mark's shoulder. "Come on," He said "You deserve better. You know you deserve better, Mark." Absentmindedly, his thumb began stroking the back of Mark's neck and his fingers against Mark's shoulder. Roger noticed how fine Mark's hair was, soft like a newborn's. He gently rubbed the base of Mark's neck, feeling the tension leave his room mate. Under normal circumstances, this would be uncomfortable, a tactic to get the other to sleep. But for Mark and Roger, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Roger wasn't necessarily vulnerable after Mimi broke up with him, more confused. He was stripped of the air of spontaneity that he had begun to embody when he dated Mimi. Who was he going to turn to for support and inspiration? "Everything happens for a reason, Rog," Mark had said the previous night as he helped Roger to bed. "Even if it seems like the odds are stacked against you, it will work out in the end." As he left the room, probably to sit in the cold loft in silence, Roger noticed the rueful glance Mark cast his way.

"Mark? Come back." He couldn't believe how soft his voice was, the usual gravel it possessed lost. Mark turns around, obviously uncomfortable in Roger's gaze and with his request.

"I'm not gonna yell or get angry. I'm not like that anymore, you know." Roger sighs, his mind drifting back to the time of April's death. He was still using and would get violent when his drug-induced hazes would start fading. Mark, poor meek Mark, who just wanted to help Roger would suddenly sport bruises for weeks on end. One on a shoulder, a few in each side, and eventually one spreading across his jaw. If he thought hard enough, Roger could still see the phantom bruises spotting Mark's skinny body.

Mark sits gingerly on the foot of the bed, but it still groans in protest. "Do you want to talk or something?"

"Just not about Mimi, alright?" He pushed the covers off himself and gestured for Mark to join him beneath them, making Mark's eyes widen to the size of saucers. Roger shook his head. "It's cold, you fool. Come here."

Mark crawled over and tucked the comforter around his legs. "Alright. What do you want to talk about then?"

Roger shrugged and played with loose threads on his stained pillowcase.

"What's with the sudden shyness?" Mark said as he massaged the bridge of his nose. "You're never one to mince words."

Roger stayed silent, fidgeting aimlessly. "I think.. I just don't want to be alone." He said in a voice just below a whisper. Mark reached out and smoothed some of Roger's hair out of his face.

"It's okay, you know. To not want to be lonely. I know what it's like." Mark replied wistfully, his forehead furrowing.

Roger squinted to make out Mark's features in the dark. He hadn't shaved in a few days, as the strawberry blonde stubble was beginning to show on his chin. The bags under his eyes gave away his late nights of pacing and thinking, checking in on Roger to make sure he was alright and not beating himself up over Mimi. There was a chicken pox scar below his right eye and a pearly scar shaped like a crescent moon beneath his chin. When Roger was clean Mark told him that it was from an accident on the playground when he was a kid, but Roger knew that even in his drugged-out haze, he hadn't seen it. That scar hadn't always been there. Although he didn't look a day over twenty-two physically, his mannerisms and certain aspects of his personality emotionally aged him.

"I'm sorry, Mark." Roger reached out and pulled Mark into a very awkward hug. "I'm sorry."

Mark pushed against his shoulders, struggling to get away from Roger's tight grasp. "Why? What the fuck are you apologizing for?"

"For everything I've ever done wrong and not apologized for." Roger shut his eyes tightly and clung to Mark. "I've been such an asshole and I don't deserve a friend like you."

Mark broke free and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Again, what's with this sudden stream of consciousness?"

Roger ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't fuckin' know. I'm confused as hell right now."

"Well, uh, you're... because of Mimi," Mark struggled to find the right words "It's only... normal for you to be like this."

Roger let out a small laugh. "Mark, we've been far from normal for a long time." Before he had time to answer, Roger had his lips pressed against Mark's, arms lazily draped around his neck.

_Please, please don't push me away._

When Mark finally responded, opening his mouth to make room for Roger's roaming tongue, Roger tightened his hold on Mark and deepened the kiss. Roger leans back into the headboard, Mark pressing up against him. He grabbed fistfuls of threadbare wool and pulled the sweater over Mark's head, breaking the kiss only when he felt the scratchy fabric on his face.

The light from the city illuminate's Mark's skin, giving it a blue tint. It's something that Roger would see when he hallucinated after coming down from a heavy high. His hipbones jutted out angrily, darker blue shadowing his ribs. "Stop looking at me like that, Roger." Mark wrapped his arms around his bare torso and interrupted Roger from his reverie. "It's creeping me out."

Roger entwined his fingers in Mark's hair and pressed his lips to Mark's. A warm pair of hands crept up Roger's damp t-shirt and short nails grazed his lower back. Trailing up and down his sides, Mark's hands come to rest on the waistband of Roger's jeans. He curls two fingers in the belt loops and brings Roger's hips dangerously close to his own.

Roger doesn't bother choking back a growl. He brings his lips down to the other boy's neck, sucking and biting the sensitive skin, knowing how little effort it takes to leave a mark. Mark arched into Roger at his touch. "Shhh," Roger murmured into the hollow of Mark's neck. He pressed himself gently against Mark's slender hips, eliciting a groan from the smaller man.

All Roger could focus on was Mark. Mark, Mark, _Mark_. How Mark's movements against him were delicate and not rushed, how his throaty groans in response to even the lightest touches were almost inaudible against the pounding of Roger's heart. How, even after all this time of Mark being under his skin, it felt like he was pulsing through Roger's bloodstream.

For a minute, they let their thoughts go. It's all hands and hips, teeth clashing with bruised and wet mouths, a symphony of pants and moans.

"Open your eyes, Mark," Roger whispered fiercely, "Please." He was unsure if Mark even understood what he said, let alone would comply, but Mark's eyes opened. He didn't say anything, just kept their gaze locked. If Roger ever doubted Mark's emotions (or lack thereof), that look would have annihilated those doubts. Blue eyes clouded with desire met with fierce emerald.

Mark's gaze hit Roger like a ton of bricks. More than that. There was an undeniable ardor in them, a raw and fiery passion Roger had never seen reflected through anyone else's eyes. Regardless of how Mark tried to keep his emotions at bay, his eyes would always defy him.

Mark was simple, he knew what he liked and what he wanted out of life. Loving him wasn't messy or complicated. He responded to Was it their friendship that made this newfound relationship seem so easy? Or just the fact that Mark was easy to please? All he ever looked for was acknowledgement. A smile in the morning, a note explaining where he was, bringing him home a drink from the Life Cafe. Mark with his perpetually sad eyes who used to perk up when Roger would send a comment in his general direction. Little things that Roger knew anyone else would take for granted. He gave Roger the attention he craved and Roger basked in it.

Roger pulled away from the fervent embrace. Mark's lips were moist and swollen, his cheeks pink from exertion. Roger couldn't help but picture how foggy Mark's glasses would've been, had he been wearing them. His chest glistened and his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"Say something. Anything, Roger." Mark whispered.

"What the fuck am I supposed to say? I just kissed and almost fooled around with my best friend, my room mate of at least six years!" Roger exclaimed, running his hands through sweat-dampened hair, wiping beads off it from his temples.

Mark met his eyes and gave a sheepish, shy smile. He returned with a knowing half-grin.

"At this point, I don't even know what to think." He reached for his glasses.

"About what?"

"You. Me. This. About us." He shrugged. "If you _want_ there to be an us, that is. Because if you don't I completely under-"

Roger held my hand up. "Let's not try to define this just yet. It is what it is. Can't we just _be_?"

He laughed and curled up beneath the covers. "You sound like Collins."

"Come to think of it, he's said that before." Roger mused, propping himself up with a pillow. "Go to sleep. I just need to think for a little while."

Mark wedged his hand between Roger's pillow and his shoulder, stroking gently. "Alright," he managed, voice thick with sleep. He muttered something unintelligible into the pillow.

Roger stared at the cracking plaster on the wall.

_Now what?_


	2. Chapter 2

More Emotion Sickness is slowly trucking along, writing and re-writing itself. So here's a little scrap of something to tide anyone who's waiting over. I'm sorry it's taking so long- I really am.

Thanks to **fadeinonme**, **EvilEatingSanta**, **L.M. Ward**, **Jess**, and **LoverFaery** for their sweet reviews.

* * *

When Roger loses his temper, he gets truly angry. Not even his conscience can keep him from throwing things, breaking glass, and even getting violent. Withdrawal was his lowest point. Bruises began to appear on Mark and Roger couldn't remember. He shuddered thinking of all the times he'd question about the cuts and bruises and Mark would beat around answering or change the subject completely. And there was that one time when April came home with a black eye and a bleeding lip, her emaciated form shaking. He had never wanted to hurt someone more than that dealer. But Roger was too busy worrying about getting his next hit- he let it slide. 

Seeing Mark like that, sprawled out and panting on his bed, both aroused and scared him. He knew he wasn't supposed to feel like that about Mark.

Instead of dwelling on their encounter, Roger thought back to the time when he and Mark first met.

_"I'm not trying to film anything- I swear!" Roger heard an exasperated voice above the classical music that was resonating softly through the gallery._

_"I'm sorry sir, but you're going to have to put that away," The other voice was stern and authoritative. "It's against the rules to bring in any recording device."_

_"But I'm not filming the pictures, just the people who are here."_

_Roger craned his neck to see above the line in front of the bar. He could see a blonde in glasses arguing with a man wearing a black shirt with the words "Security" emblazed across the back. Both of their hands were on the same antique black camera that looked about the same age of the two of them combined, probably more._

_"If you want to film, go somewhere else." The man spat, shoving the camera back into the blonde's hands. "There are enough fucking artists in this place anyway."_

_The film maker scowled and tucked the camera into his bag. He approached the bar and tossed a few dollars onto the table. "Just give me something hard."_

_Roger cocked an eyebrow and began mixing ingredients. "So you're a director?"_

_"More of a film maker, I guess. I just dropped out of Brown. Today, actually."_

_"Cool, man. College isn't for anyone with a creative mind. They just stifle it with all the term papers and standardized tests. The real artists don't need a degree to say that they're talented. They fuckin' know it." Roger poured the mixture into a glass and handed it to the other man._

_"It's just a piece of paper." He shook his head and gulped down half of the drink. "I'm Mark. Mark Cohen."_

_"Roger Davis." He took a swig from his own beer bottle. "So you dropped out of Brown? Where are you staying?"_

_Mark shrugged. "I haven't figured that out yet. My parents would kill me if I tried to go back to Scarsdale."_

_"Scarsdale? Did you go to high school there?" Roger squinted and tried to place a younger face with the name._

_"Yep," Mark rolled his eyes. "Worst years of my life."_

_Roger nodded. "Yeah, I think I remember you. Didn't you spend a lot of time in the library?"_

_Mark blushed and finished the second half of his drink. "Either that or get my ass kicked by some punks in the cafeteria. I think you stole my bag once, flushed all my books down one of the toilets."_

_The other man cringed, running a hand through bleached hair. "Man, I'm sorry. I was such a fucking asshole back then. I thought I was so cool pulling stunts like that. That was so immature and high school."_

_Mark shrugged. "No need to apologize. Nobody knows who they are at that age. We were all just trying to get by. No harm, no foul."_

_"Let me tell you what, how about you crash at my place until you can get your feet back on the ground?"_

_"That's not necessary," Mark had insisted. "I'll figure something out."_

_"Come on man, it's the least I can do. Karma's telling us both something right now," He scribbled an address and phone number down on a cocktail napkin. "So the offer stands whether you want it or not."_

Roger got into the shower early that morning, needing a release of some kind, _any_ kind. Waking up next to your best friend is bad enough, let along having to try to explain an out-of-place erection. Roger used to lock himself in there for hours on end until his mind was clear. There was something about the steam and hot water (while it lasted) that gave him the bone-melting relaxation that nothing else could.

He had done some of his best songwriting in the loft's tiny bathroom. With its porcelain tub and tiled walls, the acoustics had always been so rich and full. Just right for composing his next ballad. Roger hadn't finished a song in a while. Too long, if you asked him.

Roger started the shower and stripped quickly, wanting to spend as much time possible under the hot spray. He shifted, trying to get the water to hit the kink in his neck just right. He hadn't slept well that night and the little moments of rest he did get were plagued with guilt and restlessness. He rubbed the shampoo into his hair, creating a thick lather. Usually his showers were quick and cold; the luxury of hot water being one of the only things Mark would take advantage of. As the water slowly began to taper to room temperature and then to freezing, he wrapped a towel around his waist and looked into the foggy mirror.

Roger had always wondered why his looks were so special to people. When he looked in the mirror he saw dull green eyes, rimmed with gray bags, skin that was sallow from his lack of sleep, and scars from various childhood accidents and bar brawls. Roger didn't think he was anything extraordinary.

A knock on the door interrupted him.

"Are you done yet?" Mark asked through the wood. "I have to use the bathroom."

Roger gathered up his clothes and slipped past Mark, leaving the door ajar.

"Any hot water left?" Mark called after him.

"Probably not," Roger turned and gave him a wicked smile.

Once he was fully dressed (in clothes that probably needed a good washing), Roger meandered over to the couch with his guitar to pick out a few long overdue melodies. It gave him an excuse to warm up with Musetta's Waltz anyway, which he was sure Mark was sick of hearing about five years ago.

"You're going out?" He asked, feigning disinterest.

"Yeah, I might go to temple."

"Mark, you _never_ go to temple. What gives?"

"I... just need to think about some things. It's always been a good place to sort out my thoughts." Mark replied. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't frequent the local synagogue more often, for the relief it gave him.

"We don't need to stand here shooting the breeze to figure out why." Roger muttered, hitting a sour note that resonated through the loft.

"It's not like that." Mark sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I just need quiet time to think about what happened. Maybe this isn't as easy for me to sort out as it is for you."

"And _I'm_ not saying that you can't go to temple," Roger spat. "So if you want to go, do it for yourself, not for my sake."

"You exasperate me sometimes, Roger." Mark sat down next to him and reached for his hand. Roger pulled it away from him, not angrily, but still away. "But when you pull shit like this, I don't know how to react. You never seem to notice that or care."

Roger glanced up at Mark, who was beginning to get that hurt puppy dog look. Roger made Mark jump through hoops to prove himself worthy of his attention and Mark came back every time with his proverbial tail between his legs. And as time progressed, the hoops got higher and more difficult to get through. But Mark would always try, just to make Roger happy.

"Come on," Roger said, squeezing Mark's shoulder. "You know I don't mean it like that."

"No, no I don't know!" Mark crossed his arms.

Roger tilted a smooth chin up to his own and softly pressed his lips to Mark's.

Mark muttered something intelligible into Roger's mouth.

"What?"

"There's no word for conscience in Hebrew."

"Come here you loser." Roger grinned and curled his hands around Mark's belt loops, tugging the other man into his lap.

"It's alright," Roger whispered into Mark's neck, turning his head to give him a long, reassuring kiss before pulling another one of Mark's threadbare sweaters over his head. He couldn't help but notice how fragile Mark looked, all pale skin and bones. Mark was breathing hard, his eyes darting around wildly.

Mark writhed on Roger's lap as long fingers trailed up his sides.

"Shh," Roger steadied Mark's hips, making sure not to touch him too closely. "We're not doing anything."

"Fuck! Roger, you have to stop doing this," Mark groaned. "Stop teasing me."

"We're not going to fuck, Mark," Roger sighed, wiping at his eyes. "Not now, not next week, not _ever_."

Mark scowled and angrily pushed his room mate off his lap before storming into his own bedroom.

"Mark, come on!" Roger called.

Mark doesn't slam his door like Roger wants him to. He doesn't scream or throw punches or hit the walls. All Roger got was the thud of Mark's feet on the hardwood floor and the soft click of his door closing. Roger doesn't like Mark's silent anger. It's a sharp contrast to his own, which burns hard and fast. He's learned from experience that when Mark gets angry, he retreats. He gets a little more introverted, a little more sullen and ultimately, a little more numb. Roger knows that there's no use trying to lure Mark out of his bedroom with false apologies and fresh tea. He tried that a few too many times in the past to be that foolish to think it would work now. Instead, Roger curls up with his comforter and tries to catch up on the sleep he missed the previous night.

Maybe that's what they both needed. A day away from one another, one to think and one to sleep. And in the morning, maybe they could rectify the situation. Maybe being the key word.


End file.
